Playing Spies
by iColor With Crayons
Summary: "His name is Clint," The little redhead boasted proudly, gesturing to the small blond boy standing beside her, "And we're going to be friends forever."


**Hello there! This is just a one-shot I wrote as a gift for a friend - she recently discovered how hard she ships Clintasha. Anyway, it isn't much, but I thought I'd share it regardless. Any feedback you have to offer would be much appreciated. I hope you enjoy it!**

* * *

At seven years old, Natasha Romanoff was not a social child. On the contrary, she intentionally isolated herself from nearly all social situations. Perhaps that was why her parents were so surprised when she brought a friend home from dinner.

"His name is Clint," The little redhead boasted proudly, gesturing to the small blond boy standing beside her, "And we're going to be friends forever."

Natasha didn't know why her parents warned her against growing too attached to her only friend. They were constantly talking about going back to Russia, which seemed strange, given that they had just come to America. There was something involving the words "government" and "KGB," but Natasha did not allow herself to be too bothered with the deeper meanings. She did not have time for anything that was not shiny, tasty, or Clint.

The two children spent a large majority of their time running around the field behind Natasha's house. Clint didn't have a house. He lived in the orphanage a few streets over and had lots of other children to play with. Natasha was delighted that despite all of those children that he lived with, he still liked her the best.

When they met up in the field behind Natasha's house, they would play all sorts of games. They would catch fireflies in the small jars that Clint always seemed to have with him, they would dig large holes with their bare hands in the hopes of finding dinosaur bones, and they would play Natasha's personal favorite game: spies. Clint would always let her play the good spy.

Natasha and Clint spent two years attached at the hip. Clint grew a little bit taller than Natasha, but Natasha could still knock him down when he made her really mad, so that was okay. Every teacher refused to put them anywhere near each other during their elementary school classes, but no teacher could keep them apart during recess. Other children would try to join them when they played spies, but Natasha quickly sent them on their way. There could only be a good spy and a bad spy. Civilians, she asserted, would only make things messy. Natasha wouldn't admit that she only wanted Clint to herself.

They loved each other. It was the kind of deep, platonic love that only children can enjoy without consequences. Maybe that's why it hurt so bad when Natasha and her family had to go back to Russia one warm, June morning. Natasha's parents had not warned her; they had simply burst into her room, packed her bags, and whisked her off to the airport. She didn't even get to say goodbye to Clint.

* * *

Ten years later, nineteen year old Natasha Romanoff was still not especially social. She was extremely talented at socializing, but she enjoyed it no more than she had enjoyed watching the KGB slaughter her parents right in front of her. As far as she could tell, there was nobody in the world worth talking to.

Reminding herself that she was in a public setting, she pushed aside all of the dark thoughts swirling around her head and focused on the file sitting on her lap. Her newest target.

The mission was simple enough. She would wine and dine the target - a disgusting-looking Italian man with an extremely corrupt intelligence agency at his disposal - and once she had sufficiently charmed the man with a combination of flirty comments and the ridiculously simple facade that could only work on sleazy men, she would dispose of the man, use his key to enter the intelligence agency, and pick up the files that the KGB had assigned to her.

"Tasha?"

Natasha's head snapped up. She could not remember the last time that she had been called 'Tasha.' Actually, she could. She could remember it perfectly. The only person that had ever been permitted to use the nickname was…

"Clint?"

Clint looked so different and somehow still so familiar. He was taller, he did something new with his hair that Natasha wasn't sure that she liked, and he had muscles. Natasha was no longer certain that she could push him down on her first try. His eyes, though, they were the same. They were blue and warm and looked like home.

"I knew it!" Clint exclaimed with a wide smile. He sat down across from her in the cramped cafe booth and looked her over, still smiling. His smile had not changed a bit. It was just as youthful and genuine as it had been when he was seven years old. Natasha didn't want to think about all of the ways that she had changed.

"It was the hair," Clint continued excitedly, "Your hair has always been so _red_. I didn't think it was possible for anyone else to have hair like yours. I was hoping that I'd get the chance to see you while I was here. It was a little unrealistic, but here you are."

"Here I am." Natasha agreed quietly.

Her eyebrows furrowed as Clint began to talk about everything; he told her that she looked great. He told her all about what she had missed all throughout elementary school, middle school, and high school. He told her about neighborhood scandals, about his friends from the orphanage, and about all of the dogs that he had seen while in Russia. It was as though nothing had changed at all.

Things had changed, though. Natasha had not wanted them to, but they had. She could not remember how to talk to someone from whom she had nothing to extort. She did not know where to guide the conversation when she did not know what she wanted from him. It did not help that Clint was the first male that Natasha found herself attracted to. She watched him speak in an animated tone, making far too many hand gestures as he did so, overwhelmed by a sense of confusion all the while.

"I'm sorry, I'm talking way too much. How are you? What brings you here? What's in the folder? Are you going to school around here?" Clint asked, his eyes flicking down to the file resting on Natasha's lap before returning upwards to meet her eyes. His eyes still sparkled like Christmas lights on a tree.

Natasha shook her head and smiled awkwardly. "I would tell you, but then I would have to kill you."

Those words would have stricken fear into the heart of any other man. Natasha had killed people Lots of people. Good people, bad people, she had killed all sorts without a second thought. Her words held no threat against Clint, though. She could never hurt Clint.

Clint threw his head back and let out a burst of laughter. It was unrestrained and happy. Natasha couldn't remember the last time she had made anyone laugh. She smiled against her will. It felt unnatural and comfortable all at once.

"There are worse ways to go, I guess," He chuckled, leaning across the table and smiling at her easily, "It's really good to see you, Tasha."

Natasha swallowed hard and nodded. It was strange to find someone's presence so comforting. For once, she did not want to be alone. She was dreading the moment when Clint would walk away. And he would most certainly walk away.

Clint didn't seem bothered by her lack of speech. He just glanced down at his watch, smile in place and eyes sparkling. Natasha could not take her eyes off of him.

"I should go," Clint sighed, announcing the inevitable, "I was supposed to meet my instructor at the airport a few minutes ago. He isn't going to be happy. Uh, hey, I'm going to be back in about a month or two. Part of my education, you know. What do you say we grab some dinner? I'd really like to catch up some more with you."

Natasha couldn't help looking bewildered by the question. Clint wanted to see her again. This glimmer of hope, this ball of sunshine, actually wanted to be around her. She could not understand it. She was a dark cloud, a shattered dream. What could she possibly have to offer him?

"Tasha?" Clint questioned, his mouth curving into a much softer smile.

"Dinner," Natasha agreed, swallowing the lump in her throat and nodding emphatically, "Yes, absolutely." She had meant to sound much more distant. She should have known better than to try to seem apathetic about Clint. His enthusiasm was as contagious as the plague.

"Great! I mean, yeah. Dinner," Clint let out a small huff of embarrassed laughter that Natasha didn't completely understand, "So, let's say...the 21st, right here, seven o'clock?"

Natasha smiled and nodded.

Clint beamed. "Awesome. I'll see you then. Bye, Tasha."

Natasha could only wave. She didn't trust herself to speak, which was an oddity all its own. She was always in control of herself. She disliked socialization but when she opted to socialize, she dominated the conversation. It appeared that the sole exception to that rule laid with Clint Barton.

* * *

Natasha Romanoff was not the kind of girl that worried about boys. She was nineteen years old and had never had a serious boyfriend. Prior to her accidental meeting with Clint, her lack of romantic experience did not bother her. She was free to do as she pleased. She could flirt with her missions without getting attached. It was easy.

Clint had made things less easy. In fact, he had made things quite difficult. Natasha wanted nothing more than to focus on her missions, on _surviving_, but she could not stop her mind from wandering. Her dreams were filled with sparkling eyes, bright smiles, and infectious laughter. Even when she was conscious, she could not help but think about Clint. She wondered what he was doing, what he was thinking about, and whether or not he remembered that one day that they had spent in the field talking about what they would become when they grew up. She wondered if he would ever become an astronaut. She would never become a ballerina.

For the first week after her unexpected encounter with her childhood friend, Natasha could not stop smiling when she thought about the dinner that was waiting for her at the end of the month. She had never been asked on a real date before, but she was certain that what Clint had proposed was a date. She had gone on fake dates, dates that were meant to extort and weasel information out of weaker men, but she had never gone on a date for the sake of dating. She couldn't imagine enjoying a date, but if there was ever a scenario in which she would enjoy a date, it would be a date with Clint. He had grown up to be a pretty nice looking individual, and after all, it was rare that she met someone that made her smile.

Towards the end of that first week, though, she began to doubt. Clint had no reason to want to date her. He knew nothing about her and she knew nothing about him. He was good, she was not. It was not in his best interest to ask her on a date. Not unless he had something to gain from it, which he did not. He was only a college student, after all. A clueless college student who did not know that his childhood friend had murdered more people than he had probably ever met. Natasha's stomach sank at the thought.

She would not go on the date, she decided. She would only hurt Clint. The KGB would use him against her, another organization would think that he knew something and take him, or she would get too attached and have to leave again.

When the 21st rolled around, Natasha's resolve did not weaken. At 6:30, she climbed up a tree near the cafe and waited for Clint to make his appearance. At 6:50, Clint showed up and sat down at one of the outside restaurants. He ordered an expensive bottle of wine in extremely broken Russian. Natasha couldn't help but smile.

Clint remained at the table for hours. He seemed completely at ease; he ate the food that he ordered, he spoke to passerbyes when they happened to stop - mostly to pet their dogs - and he read a book that he had apparently kept in his back pocket. Natasha could not make out the title of the book.

As eleven o'clock rolled around, the owner of the restaurant approached Clint with an apologetic look. It was clear that the man did not want to shoo Clint away after the blond had been stood up for a date. To Natasha's surprise, Clint was incredibly gracious about the entire thing. He smiled, shook the owner's hand, and gave him a sizable amount of money. Natasha was relatively certain that he did not yet understand the exchange rate of the dollar and the ruble.

She watched him walk away, wondering if she would really regret her decision later in her life. She was beginning to regret it already. Clint had proven to be nicer than any of the men that she had ever encountered. He might have been exactly what she needed to wipe the red from the ledger. She shook her head and continued walking. It was not Clint's job to rescue her. He had not signed up for it, nor did he deserve it. She would just have to rescue herself.

* * *

At twenty four years old, Natasha had forgotten about the concept of romance altogether. Clint became a very distant thought; she would occasionally dream of him, sometimes her mind would trick her into believing that she had seen him in various places, but for the majority of the time, she was able to stay focused on her survival.

She completed several missions. She moved up the ladder on the KGB. She could not be proud of the accomplishment, as she did not exactly believe in the work that she was doing, but she was alive. She did not dare ask for more than that.

She received orders from a very limited amount of people, but when she received the orders she knew better than to protest against them. She kept her head down and followed instructions. It was easy. That was, until Clint Barton went and threw a wrench in the process once again.

The blond had a knack for showing up at strange times, but this was the worst of it yet. Natasha had thought nothing of it when a new file was given to her. Another day, another mission. It wasn't until she opened the file that she realized that this assignment was altogether different from the ones she had completed before.

"_Agent_ Clint Barton?" She whispered to herself, staring at the picture of Clint in disbelief.

He looked almost exactly the way he had when they were both nineteen. The only difference was his smile. It was absent in the picture. In its place was a cold look that seemed to pierce right through her. She scowled right back at the picture, unsure of whether she wanted to cry or vomit.

Clint was an agent. Clint was an agent for another agency. Clint was an agent for _S.H.I.E.L.D._ Clint was an agent that she had been ordered to bring in for questioning. Natasha didn't dare think about what would happen once he had been questioned. She was already at a loss on how to bring him in for questioning without destroying their friendship altogether.

As was Natasha's luck, the KGB had it all figured out. They set up a fake encounter with S.H.I.E.L.D.; Clint Barton would be expecting to receive a dangerous weapon from the Russian government that would be sent into space via S.H.I.E.L.D.'s infamous slingshot. Natasha would strike when he was least suspecting. The very thought of it repulsed her. She loved Clint, as much as she struggled with the idea of it. It was the kind of love that she knew could not possibly end well. After all, they were not children anymore.

* * *

The KGB had done their job very well. When Natasha entered the restaurant that Clint had been directed to wait in, he looked surprised, but not worried in the least. On the contrary, a smile slid across his face. His eyes were not sparkling as much as they had when he was nineteen, but he believed that he was about to go through a deal with the Russian government. A little bit of anxiety was to be expected. Natasha's heart felt heavy enough to sink to her feet.

"You're a bit late for our dinner date, don't you think?" He asked good-naturedly.

Natasha smiled and shook her head, hoping that Clint could not see how wretched she felt. She had never been able to control her emotions around Clint. Now that he was a spy, he would be able to pick up on every single detail written across her face. She could only hope that he trusted her enough to allow her facial expressions to pass by without questioning them.

"Then I guess it's lucky that it's lunch time, then, isn't it?" Natasha countered, trying her best to become the coy and charming woman that she automatically turned into around her potential victims. She hated thinking of Clint as her victim.

And Clint; poor, unsuspecting Clint, he just laughed. He shook his head, his chest rumbling with laughter. He set down his menu and leaned across the table in that way that only he could. Natasha leaned back automatically.

"I would love to have lunch with you, Tasha, but I'm actually meeting someone here. We just can't get our timing right, can we?" Clint questioned teasingly, glancing around the restaurant cautiously before casting a smile in Natasha's direction.

"Meeting a girlfriend?" The question slipped out of Natasha's mouth before she had thought it through. She had intended to sound coy and and playful, but instead she had sounded shrill and concerned. She frowned and immediately took an interest in the label on a nearby bottle of wine.

Clint smiled gently. "No, I'm not meeting a girlfriend. I'm actually meeting a business partner."

Natasha nodded, looking around the restaurant thoughtfully. Clint had not specified whether or not he actually _had_ a girlfriend, but that was for the best. Natasha did not want to know if there was anybody back in the United States waiting for Clint. She did not want to know if there was somebody that was destined to receive a letter of regret with Clint's name and picture included.

While looking around, Natasha could not help but notice that several of her fellow agents were occupying the room. Every customer in the restaurant was part of the KGB, actually. The waiters looked suspiciously like the training operatives that Natasha had seen around headquarters a few times. Her eyebrows were furrowed as she turned to look at Clint once again.

He did not have a chance and it was clear that he was not to be given one. Natasha would have to get him out of the restaurant in her allotted time frame or risk another agent man handling Clint. He would not be happy with her when he realized that she had taken advantage of their friendship, but even he would realize that she had just been doing what was best for him. Her watch beeped loudly, letting her know that her time was up. The nearest waiter was approaching their table with a large bottle of wine that Natasha knew was intended for Clint.

"I am so, so sorry." She whispered, looking away as the bottle was broken directly over Clint's head.

* * *

The bottle had knocked Clint out automatically. It was a greater kindness than Natasha had expected from her fellow agents. Many of them seemed to thrive off of seeing others in pain. She, on the other hand, could not bear to look at Clint. He was lying unconscious in the back of the car, his blond hair turned red with blood. Natasha promised herself that she would give him her personal blood-removal secrets once the KGB was done questioning him. She was allowing herself to assume that he would walk out of headquarters alive. She should have known better.

Clint was secured to a chair that Natasha knew was uncomfortable. His hands were bound much too tight and his head was allowed to droop in such a way that he would surely wake up with a crick in his neck. Natasha bit her tongue in an effort to control her emotions. She was surrounded by the KGB. She could not allow herself to be influenced by Clint. Not now.

It took Clint half an hour to recover. When he did, he let out a loud groan and allowed his head to droop for a few seconds. Roman, one of the more aggressive agents in the interrogation room, approached Clint and pulled his head upright by his hair. Natasha bit down on her tongue harder.

"Ow, fuck, hey, do you mind letting up on the hair, buddy? I've got sensitive follicles," Clint growled, sparing Roman a dark look before turning to look at Natasha.

Natasha had never felt quite so terrible in her entire life. Clint didn't look angry at her, he just looked disappointed. He looked at her in quiet acceptance for a few seconds before returning his attention to Roman, who was speaking in gruff Russian. Natasha allowed her eyes to flicker down to the ground while Roman demanded answers from her petulant friend.

The loud sound of a hand coming into rapid contact with Clint's face snapped Natasha's attention back to the proceedings.

"We were told _no force necessary_." She growled, approaching Roman and shoving him away from Clint.

"No, _you_ were told no force necessary." Roman snapped back.

Natasha folded her arms across her chest. "If we're going to use force, then at least let me do it. You're going about this all the wrong way. A slap to the face isn't anything he hasn't felt before. We need to give our guest a truly unique experience." She kept her voice low and deadly, the same tone that she used to threaten higher ranking members of the KGB. It never failed to inspire fear. Clint squirmed in his chair uncomfortably.

Natasha selected the sharpest utensil on the tray near Clint's chair before leaning closer to her childhood friend. He held her gaze, unblinking and still so incomprehensibly trusting. It was bizarre to think that this man, this man that she barely knew, trusted her so completely. She had forced him into the interrogation room unconscious and was towering over him with a tool of torture, and yet, he was looking at her as if he could read her mind. They hadn't spent more than ten minutes together since they were nine years old. He should have hated her the second he regained consciousness. He should not have looked at her like she was going to save the day.

With an inward sigh, Natasha quickly used the knife to cut both of Clint's hands free. Roman noticed first, made a noise of protest, and caused all four other agents to spring into action. Natasha should have allowed Clint to fight the KGB agents off on his own. He was an agent, after all. He had undoubtedly received some kind of training. There was just something in those eyes of his that made her want to do better. Something that made her want to be the good spy again.

After crossing off her former team without much hesitation, Natasha grabbed hold of Clint's arm and dragged him towards the air vent of the building. The pair might have fought well together, but not even they could take on everyone in KGB's headquarters alone. It just wasn't possible.

"Where is your extraction point?" Natasha demanded, trying to map out a potential route for them in her head.

"Don't have one," Clint with a laugh that was entirely out of place among the dreary news, "I usually don't need one. I guess I should have listened to Director Fury when he told me not to underestimate the Black Widow."

"Ugh," Natasha rolled her eyes, feeling her face redden, "_please_ don't call me that."

"How did that happen, anyway?" Clint asked, propping himself up to get a better look at Natasha from the other side of the air vent, "When did you transform from Tasha to the '_Black Widow_'? If I had to guess, I'd say that it was probably way after you spent that night watching me from a tree like a deranged bird."

"You knew about that?" Natasha couldn't help but laugh.

"Did you really think that you were being subtle? There were maybe twenty strings of light all around you and your hair is the color of a forest fire. Really, how _did _you get your reputation?" Clint teased, reaching across the vent and tugging at Natasha's hair playfully.

The sound of gunfire silenced any answer that Natasha might have come up with.

"We should get out of here." Both Clint and Natasha stated unanimously.

The pair silenced their jokes and taunts in order to navigate their way out of the air vent and towards Clint's team. Natasha could not help but smile as they squirmed through the small ducts. She had not spoken to someone so effortlessly in ages.

When they reached Clint's team, about five miles Southwest of KGB headquarters, every single member of the team noticed Clint's ragged appearance and pointed their weapons in Natasha's direction. Natasha was not entirely surprised, but she did not know which protocol to follow. Agent protocol warned her not to trust these strangers and to instead disarm them by any means necessary. Friend protocol warned her not to injure or slaughter Clint's friends. In a fit of weakness, she dropped her weapon and looked to Clint for assistance.

"Are you crazy? She's not a threat. Her name is Natasha," Clint stated in an exasperated tone, stepping in front of Natasha to block any potential attacks. He turned around to grin at her, "And she's with me."

Natasha had never been 'with' someone before. She had been a part of a number of teams and had played the role of a doting female companion to a series of sleazy men, and, on occasion, a few sleazy women, but she had never been part of an equal partnership. She had never been aligned with someone who would step in front of a loaded weapon to protect her. She liked it, though. She liked being 'with' Clint.

* * *

Natasha was not a team player. She never had been. She never would be. She told Director Fury the same thing in explicit terms when Clint brought her back to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s main offices. Fury seemed interested in recruiting the Black Widow. Natasha could not have been less interested in being recruited for any of the missions that Fury mentioned.

In fact, Natasha didn't want to be involved with S.H.I.E.L.D. at all, not really. She had learned her lesson with intelligence agencies. It wasn't until Director Fury promised that she could work with Clint exclusively that she accepted the emphatic job offer that she kept receiving. Clint accepted the exclusive partnership easily, assuming that Fury simply thought that they would work well together. Natasha decided that it was best not to mention that she had told Fury that she would quit the second either of them received different partners. She didn't want anyone else to get the privilege of being 'with' Clint. She would never admit that she had always wanted Clint to herself.


End file.
